Charles Todd - The Confession

There seemed to be no good reason to suspect murder.

Unless, of course, Wyatt Russell had learned almost a year later that Fowler had killed his mother and hidden her body.

If that was the case, how did Ben Willet come to have Mrs. Russell’s locket?

Standing there watching the river moving silently toward the North Sea, he found himself wondering why, when Mrs. Russell had disappeared, the family had sent for the police in Tilbury, more than an hour away. And it had been Tilbury who had asked for the help of the villagers, not Wyatt Russell.

On both occasions when he’d been in Furnham, Rutledge had seen neither a police constable walking along the street nor a police station. He himself hadn’t sought out the local man because he was still in the early stages of the inquiry and Willet’s murder had occurred in London, not River’s Edge. But there must be a constable in the village. Surely-

A woman’s angry voice cut into his reverie, and Hamish was warning him to beware.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing? This is private property!” She came striding through the French doors at his back, and he knew her as soon as he turned, although the expression of the living face was very different from the one in the locket he had carried with him to Furnham.

“Miss Farraday, I think?” he asked pleasantly and watched her go as still as if she had been carved from marble.

“Who are you?” Her voice was guarded, cold.

“My name is Rutledge,” he told her. “And I may ask you the same question. What are you doing here? This property, as far as I know, was not left to you by the previous owner.”

It was a shot in the dark, but it struck a spark.

“Are you Wyatt’s solicitor?” she snapped.

“At the moment I’m representing him,” Rutledge replied.

She was very attractive, with more spirit than he’d expected from her photograph. She had also changed in other ways. There was a maturity about her that wasn’t present six years ago. The girl had grown into a very self-assured young woman.

“I’m looking to buy the property. Is it for sale?” she asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Even in its present sad condition, I doubt that you could afford to buy it and then keep it up.”

An angry flush flared in her cheeks. “I have come into my inheritance,” she retorted. “You can speak to my own solicitors if you don’t believe me.”

“How did you arrive here? I didn’t see a motorcar or a carriage in the drive.”

“I came by boat.”

But he hadn’t seen a boat by the landing stage either.

“It’s a launch, I rented it upriver. It’s tied up out of sight.” She read the doubt in his face. “There’s another place where a boat can tie up.”

“The tradesman’s entrance?”

To his surprise she laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact. The Russell who built River’s Edge didn’t wish to see viands and coal and other goods carried across his hard-won lawn. The path leads directly to the kitchen. What do you do, come here once a fortnight to see that all is well? I noticed, when last I came, that someone had walked up the drive. The grasses were bent over, and even broken here and there.”

“How often do you come?”

“When the spirit moves me,” she countered.

“How did you get into the house?”

“When I left, no one thought to ask me for my key.”

“When did you leave?”

“Before the war,” she answered evasively.

“Why did you leave?”

She pondered that, her eyes taking on the expression of someone staring into the long and unforgiving past. “A very good question. I expect it was because I felt it was the right thing to do.”

“Indeed?”

“It’s a lovely day. Would you care to bring out two chairs? We could sit here and enjoy the afternoon. Sadly there’s no one to bring us our tea. Never mind. And I must warn you I promised to have the launch back no later than five o’clock.”

He did as she asked, walking into the house for the first time.

The room behind the French doors was spacious, with a marble hearth set across from the long windows. The high ceiling was decorated with plaster roses and swags of floral garlands, while trellises of lemon and peach roses climbed the wallpaper. Several chairs and settees, what he could see of them beneath the shrouding dust sheets, were covered in pale green and soft yellows. The effect was tranquil, an indoor garden, created for a woman’s pleasure.

He found two chairs that would do, removed the sheets covering them, and carried them out to the terrace.

Cynthia Farraday was standing where he’d left her, staring out over the river.

She turned as he set a chair down near her, with a clear view across the lawns to the water, and she smiled, sitting down and stretching her booted feet out in front of her.

“Heaven,” she said as he took the other chair. “I have always loved this terrace. Aunt Elizabeth-Mrs. Russell-used the garden room more than any other, and I could understand why. The two go together, don’t you think? I spent many happy hours there.”

“When did you arrive here today?” he asked.

“I came just after noon. In fact, I’ve missed my luncheon. I didn’t think to bring any sandwiches with me.”

“How long did you intend to stay?”

“Not this long. But then I didn’t have the courage to bring out a chair. It felt somehow-wrong-to disturb the furniture. As if it were all sleeping.”

“Did you live here as a child? What do you remember most about it?”

“You’re very inquisitive for a solicitor. But since you were gallant enough to bring out our chairs, I’ll answer that. I remember being happy, for the most part. Of course in the beginning I missed my parents terribly. Wyatt did his best to amuse me, out of kindness, knowing how I grieved. And not very long afterward, another cousin-Wyatt’s, not mine-came here to live, and the three of us passed an agreeable few years together. And then we all grew up, and it was vastly different.” Her voice had taken on a sad note.

“What happened to them?”

“You’re the solicitor. You tell me.”

“Justin never came home from the war. And Russell married but lost his wife and his child at the same time. He was a widower. And he still loved you.” That last was a guess, based on what Nancy Brothers had told him, but it clearly found its mark.

Cynthia Farraday stirred uneasily. “You know too much. Have you been prying?”

“Hardly. Just fleshing out the facts. How did you get on with Mrs. Russell?”

“She liked me at first. I was a lost child, in need of mothering, and she treated me like a daughter. I was fond of her, and it was comforting to have a home again. I’d been so frightened when my parents died, and everything changed. They wouldn’t let me stay in the London house where I felt safe and everything was familiar. They told me it was for the best to go to strangers.”

“They?”

“My father’s solicitors. Very officious old men-well, I thought them old at the time-who kept telling me it was what my parents would have wished. But I was just as certain they’d have wished nothing of the sort.”

“You said earlier, ‘for the most part’?”

“At first the three of us, Wyatt and Justin and I, did everything together. It helped me heal, I think, and I expected it would always be that way. But we grew up, as children tend to do, and Wyatt thought he’d fallen in love with me. Sadly, I wasn’t in love with him. Aunt Elizabeth encouraged him. At least so I thought. I was too young at the time to realize that she might truly have liked to keep me in the family. I believed she was pushing us together for his sake, and I’d have none of it. I wasn’t a very pleasant child, I expect.”